


Fly Up to the Moon and Say Hello

by Zana_Zira



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Deathfic, Double Deathfic, Gen, Post-Season/Series 10, Series Finale Speculation, Sort of Happy Ending? Maybe?, Tragedy: Death of a Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zana_Zira/pseuds/Zana_Zira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was supposed to be a simple hunt – a quick salt and burn, in, out, done, and gone. But, like anything that involved the Winchesters, they should have known that the things that seemed simple were always the most dangerous." Post-S10 series finale speculation fic. *No Wincest* WARNING: Deathfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly Up to the Moon and Say Hello

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.
> 
> A/N: I have no idea where this fic came from. Like, at all. I have always pictured the end of the series going something like this (only a lot more epic) and actually kind of hope it does, but I never honestly thought I'd be writing a fic like this. Anyway, I apologize in advance for any tears this may cause. I hope at least some small part of you enjoys this finale fic. :*)
> 
> (And yes, the title was inspired by the song from Charlie's funeral. *sob* Charliiiieee...!)

_"You can go wherever you wanna go_

_Go wherever you wanna go_

_Fly up to the moon and say hello now_

_You can go wherever you wanna go…"_

It was supposed to be a simple hunt – a quick salt and burn, nothing more than in, out, done, and gone. After all they'd dealt with in fighting the Mark of Cain, Sam and Dean were both more than ready to get back to basics and put a couple of angry spirits to rest. But, as with anything that involved the Winchesters, they should have known that the things that seemed simple were always the most dangerous.

As the moon rose high over the old Missouri cemetery, Sam had his face buried in a map of the area, flashlight clutched in one hand as he scoured the old paper for any more burial sites they might be missing. Dean was bent over forward, face covered in sweat as he threw one shovel of dirt after another through the muggy May air to land on the growing pile behind him. They'd already dug up and burned the other two members of this spirit family, a mother and daughter who had seemed more than happy to let them light up their bones if it would put an stop to the endless misery that came with living as death echoes.

The last one on the list was Daddy, a real stand-up guy who had murdered his wife and daughter for a reason that neither Winchester had been able to puzzle out. What they did know was that he was crazy, and seemed to be taking a lot of pleasure in killing anyone around him who was unfortunate enough to still be living when they passed by. That was more than enough reason to put him down, and Dean felt good returning to the whole "Saving people, hunting things," part of the family business, but in all honesty he was really just looking forward to getting back to the bunker so he could shower and get some sleep on his awesome memory foam mattress. That was one thing that sucked about hunting – the monsters never seemed to hole up anywhere comfortable or clean.

When the attack came, it caught them both completely by surprise.

After what seemed like an eternity of digging, Dean finally felt the shovel catch against the rotted old wood of the coffin below his feet and pulled himself up out of the hole, making his way toward the can of gasoline and the salt canister sitting beside the headstone. He had just put his hand around the handle of the gas can when the reports from two rifle shots rang out through the air, making him jump a little; thank God Sammy was such a good aim, because he hadn't even known the spirit was close by.

After a moment, though, Dean realized that didn't make sense. Why would Sammy be shooting with a rifle? Those bullets weren't made of salt or iron; they'd be completely useless against a ghost. And with that thought came a sudden, frightening realization: his chest suddenly felt like it was on fire. Looking down, he had just enough time to see the dark red stains spreading across his T-shirt, one below his breastbone and the other through his abdomen, before his vision went hazy and he sank to his knees in the grass.

He heard Sam screaming his name, heard a couple of blasts from the shotgun echoing through the air, and then a pair of hands was grabbing him under the arms, dragging him away from the hole to lie on his back. Something was pressed down hard against the biggest bullet hole and he gasped, back arching as he moaned and blood gurgled up between his lips.

 _"It's okay, Dean, just hold on…"_  he heard someone say above him.  _"Cas! Castiel! Please, I need help!"_

He couldn't breathe; everything was filling up with blood, and he couldn't seem to open his eyes enough to see who was sitting next to him. Why was he even here? He couldn't remember. Everything was narrowed down to the pain in his chest and the fight for each rattling breath, and he couldn't feel anything else at all anymore. That probably wasn't good, and he knew he should be afraid, but all he felt now was tired. Maybe if he just took a little nap…

_"No, Dean! Stay with me! Come on man, don't go to sleep!"_

He wished Sam would be quiet. What was it about little brothers and keeping big brothers awake when they were trying to get some rest? Whatever it was could wait until morning.

_"Dean! Please, hold on. Don't go, not like this…"_

Wait, was Sammy crying? That got his eyes open in an instant, because if there was one thing Dean couldn't stand, it was knowing his little brother was in pain. And once he did, everything came rushing back to him, along with all the agony that had faded away before that moment. He moaned, coughing and choking as more blood rushed up his throat, and Sam turned his head to the side so it could run out of his mouth instead.

"S'mmy," he rasped, turning his head back toward his brother so he could meet his tearful gaze. "'s okay, Sammy… Don' cry..."

Sam just bit back a sob, ducking his head so his hair obscured his face before pulling himself together and putting pressure back on the wound below Dean's heart. "How about you stay alive so I won't have to?"

Dean smiled, starting to tease his little brother about being such a girl, but then a searing pain shot through his chest and he gasped, biting back a scream when it brought back memories of how it had felt to have Hell hounds tearing out his chest all those years ago. When the blood stopped rushing in his ears, he heard Sam screaming for Castiel, felt his brother's enormous hands pushing down on the gaping hole in his chest, and he knew how well and truly screwed he was.

With a grunt of pain, he lifted his hand up toward Sam's face – and damn, when did it get so heavy? – giving the Sasquatch a weak smile and patting his face when he saw the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Sammy… it's okay…" he whispered, now unable to get enough breath for more than just that. "It's how… I've always wanted to… go… okay? Let… me go…"

Sam's face immediately crumpled, and he bent forward and put his arms around Dean, pulling him up against his chest and trembling as he hugged his brother tight. "Please, no… Please, Dean, I just got you back… Don't leave me now…"

Dean huffed out a laugh, coughing immediately afterwards and splattering Sam's shirt with blood. "Big… girl… L've you, S'mmy…"

The younger hunter swallowed, his voice trembling as he said, "I love you too, you big jerk."

He waited a moment then, expecting to hear the trademark "Bitch," from Dean's lips, but it never came. Heart racing so hard he thought it might just jump out of his chest, Sam pulled Dean away from him, feeling his eyes well up with fresh tears when there was no spark of life in the dull, empty green eyes staring at him from his brother's face.

"God, Dean…" he sobbed, pulling his brother's head beneath his chin and hugging him close as if he could pour some of the warmth and life from his own body into him by doing so. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

All of a sudden, as if to spite him, Sam felt the air around him grow frigid, his breath rising before him in a pale white cloud and the hair on his neck standing on end.

And it was all just more than he could take.

With a roar of fury that would have made a Hellhound cower, Sam rounded on the murderous spirit, swinging at it with the iron head of the shovel and watching to be sure it disappeared again before sprinting over to finish what his brother had started. He swung the shovel down with all his strength, splintering the wood of the coffin into fragments that flew up around him, and once he'd climbed back out of the grave he reached for the canisters of salt and gasoline, emptying them over the musty bones beneath his feet.

He was just getting ready to go for his lighter, fingers in his jacket and ready to close around it, when he heard a squelching sound and felt his body lurch slightly forward. A moment later a searing pain began burning through him, making him scream in agony as it throbbed and pulsed outward from somewhere in his lower back. All at once the pain disappeared and he lost control of his lower body, his legs buckling and sending him sprawling out in the grass with the lighter lying a few feet out of reach. Craning his neck back toward his shoulder, Sam looked for the source of his sudden paralysis, and the sight that greeted him nearly made him vomit.

There, protruding several inches from the middle of his spine, was a jagged piece of wood from the coffin. Blood pooled around it and dribbled down his sides, collecting in the grass around him, but he couldn't feel any of it. That was probably just as well, though, because if he could he doubted he would have been able to find the strength to do anything more than curl up and wait to bleed out.

Snarling furiously at the way the entire world seemed set against him tonight, he reached behind him and tugged hard on the long wooden shard, wincing as he heard it tearing out of his skin and trying not to think about the kind of damage it had done to his spine; if he ever moved anything below his hips again, he knew it would be a miracle. With a shuddering breath he dragged himself forward, fingers clawing at the ground and gripping onto fistfuls of long Bermuda grass as he struggled to pull his useless body far enough to allow him to reach the lighter. His vision was swimming, and he felt lightheaded as he gasped for air that now seemed a lot thinner than it had only seconds ago, but somehow he managed to close his trembling fingers around the old Zippo, flicking up the cap and striking up a flame before locking the switch in place and tossing it into the grave.

In an instant, the ghost that had been hovering beside him went up in flames, and Sam ducked his head away from the searing heat he could feel just inches from his face. He didn't have long to savor his victory, though, before he finally managed to interpret the signals his body had been screaming at him from the moment he'd felt the first twinge of pain: this wound was fatal.

Panic rushed through him, making his heart race and his already weak breathing speed up as he looked over to where Dean's body lay. He was scared. He couldn't die like this. Sure, he'd died before, and that fact didn't bother him. But he'd never died  _alone._  Each and every time, Dean had been there with him, comforting him and telling him everything would be okay. Now, though, Dean was…

Sam swallowed, groaning as he felt more blood gushing from the jagged hole in his back. It was all too much. He was so tired… All he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes for a little while… Wait, no! He couldn't go like this, not without his brother. He'd done so much to try to get Dean back – he wasn't about to leave him alone now.

Summoning reserves of strength he hadn't known he possessed, Sam pushed himself up on trembling arms, forcing himself forward inch by endless inch until finally, blessedly, he was able to reach his brother's side. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, and he knew he had maybe a few minutes left, so with the last bit of power he possessed, Sam threw his arm across Dean's chest, drawing him close and laying his own torso across his brother's as if to protect him one last time.

The sound of flapping wings met his ears, soft and muted as if underwater, and Sam knew it was too little, too late. Cas couldn't heal them anymore, and even if he could, Sam wouldn't want to be brought back just to live in a world without his brother in it. If they had to go now, at least they were going together – it was the best thing that could have happened.

Heaven was waiting on the other side, and he could almost hear the voices of his mother and father, together with Bobby and Jo and Ellen and all the others he'd spent so much of his life mourning. So even though he could hear Castiel's voice beside him, begging him to hold on and telling him he was getting help, Sam just couldn't find it in himself to obey. When the darkness finally enveloped him, stealing away the last of his pain and narrowing his world down to the feeling of his brother's slowly cooling corpse beside him, he smiled and welcomed it with open arms.

_"You don't ever have to go to war no more_

_Never have to go to war no more_

_Wear them boots and swim that icy shore now_

_You don't ever have to go to war no more…"_


End file.
